


Miles From Nowhere

by HeartOfTheMirror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, could be pre-slash if you squint a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfTheMirror/pseuds/HeartOfTheMirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets hurt far from home. John is not best pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles From Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'ed. This is what I do when I should be studying for finals.

It hadn't been because of the case. That's what John thought pissed him off the most. He pressed the half-thawed bag of peas to Sherlock's bleeding face. Sherlock grunted a bit and shifted, his lanky form stretched out across the motel bed and it's bland baby-shit brown blanket. It was coarse and cheap and far below what a Holmes would consent to sleep under for sure.

John sat next to Sherlock's head on the narrow bed and saw a chill bead of condensation roll down Sherlock's cheek. 

It hadn't been because of Sherlock's deductions or his rather ill-advised habit of sharing secrets never meant for him and better left hidden. John brushed his hand through Sherlock's hair, feeling the square inch patch he'd shaved off and the smooth surface of the butterfly bandage there. It would take a Holmes to notice the missing chunk of hair among the riot of curls. The split lip, bleeding nose, and bouquet of slow-blooming bruises and shallow lacerations all over his body were a bit more obvious, if a bit less alarming to the ex-army doctor.

It hadn't been because Sherlock had gone swanning off somewhere dangerous without John. Now John had to gently shake his friend's shoulder on the hour. In-the-middle-of-nowhere America was almost an hour's drive to the nearest hospital. Neither man was particularly willing to trust someone to drive them there then wait hours for everything to be sorted before being sent back here. And as Sherlock had pointed out, he was being seen by a much more competent doctor than any they were likely to find in the backwoods. 

“What's your name?” He asked a sleepy Sherlock, whose eyes were just barely cracked open. The pupils were equal and responsive, as always. 

“Sherlock Holmes, you bloody idiot,” came the testy baritone reply.

“Name three elements on the periodic table.”

“Uranium, Arsenic, Sulfur. May I sleep now?” John made him touch all of his fingers to his thumb one by one before he was satisfied. He even went so far as to gently palpate Sherlock's abdomen as the man drifted off- just checking, being absolutely sure, that there was no internal bleeding. Despite everything, he would have felt better if they'd made the drive to the hospital. But Sherlock had outright refused and it was hard for John to argue.

“It's not your fault. Stop thinking so loud,” Sherlock mumbled, turning his face into John's thigh and giving him better access to the head wound. John ran his fingers over it again through he knew he should leave it alone. He wanted to rub it out of existence, heal it so it would be like the split in Sherlock's scalp had never existed. Head wounds on Sherlock were still something of a tender spot for John, even a year after Sherlock's fall and subsequent rise.

“I should never have left you alone,” John said, not expecting an answer and not wanting one. There was no excuse. It was John's job to read people for Sherlock. He should have seen this coming. He should have felt the tension in the climate and acted with caution instead of dismissing it. Sherlock, for all his brilliance and insight, could be dead stupid when it came to dealing with people, especially in groups. John should have known somehow, should have warned him.

It hadn't been because Sherlock and John were lovers because they weren't. John would be sleeping in his own little uncomfortable cot across the room right now if none of this had happened. 

“I'm not an infant John. I can be expected to take care of myself on occasion. Especially since we had no way of knowing that this particular occasion had the potential for excitement.” Sherlock's eyes were closed and he spoke into the fabric of John's jeans.

“You mean danger,” John said, running his hand through Sherlock's curls in a gesture that had nothing to do with physical wounds. He wasn't positive who he was comforting at this point.

“That's what I said,” Sherlock mumbled. John let a little grin flare up at that. Sherlock clutched at the loose fabric that bunched around John's knee. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had hinted at his deeply repressed desire for physical comfort. John let the hand not buried in Sherlock's hair rest on his bicep. He immediately felt grounded, like a circuit completing. 

It had been because, high off of a solved case and the demise of a ring of human traffickers, Sherlock had been careless and overconfident and hadn't wanted to be cooped up. It had been because John had left his best friend alone to go flirt with the woman who helped run the local tack and feed shop in hopes a post-case shag. It had been because the town was a stagnant pool, a closed society, that wasn't fond of outsiders- especially ones that disrupted the established order of things with accusations they would rather not believe and arrests they could do anything about. It had been because pale, willowy, posh Sherlock had seemed to be such an easy target. 

He walked down an unfamiliar road in the tiny town- if it could be called such- where the houses were sometimes half a mile apart. It was too warm for his customary coat, and even for his suit jacket, though sunset was well underway. Sherlock smoked a cigarette that John didn't need to know about with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and stopped to take a look at the corpse of a dead dog on the side of the road. Obviously killed with a screwdriver, but was that act out of kindness or cruelty. It was so hard to tell given the amount of decomposition. 

He heard them approaching but honestly didn't think to care. It was a group of five guys- all about 20 and 200 pounds. They were a little drunk, but just a little, walking toward the towns undernourished little Main Street with its handful of shops and businesses. They were a little rowdy but Sherlock thought they would just ignore him, should have just ignored him. Sherlock had nowhere else to be and didn't fancy going back to the tiny motel only to wait outside his own room while John shagged some girl. In the weak evening light, he had looked so thin and weak to those who didn't know better. 

They were all so busy trying to show off and out-man each other that they never thought he might bark back when they called him things like “faggot” and “freak” for pausing to show interest in road kill. They knew who he was, even if they hadn't seen him before. Talk traveled fast.

“Imbeciles,” Sherlock scoffed and made to walk away but then one of the boys knocked into his shoulder and pushed him. Sherlock was forced to take a step back, bumping against another of the men. He was shoved again and then from the side before he could regain his balance. He nearly toppled over trying to avoid the corpse of the dog and they all laughed. 

He could have probably walked away at that point but Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not dignified and he told them to piss off because they made the whole of America seem tragically idiotic and painfully inept. That's when the first one threw a punch. And that's when the surface tension broke and they descended on him like a pack of half-drunk hyenas. Sherlock fought back tooth and nail but it was four on one and not long before he went down hard, smacking his head against a particularly sharp rock. His opponents got a good handful of kicks before they realized he was unconscious and ran. 

For a few seconds it was just Sherlock and the dead dog in near total darkness on the empty road.

A kind lady who lived on the other side of the long lonely street came running as soon as the boys disappeared. She'd called the police but response time out in the boondocks was slow. When Sherlock came to he was in pain, nauseated, and the post-case buzz was totally gone. The lady, younger and much more tan than Mrs. Hudson, asked him if there was anyone she should call for him he dug his phone out of his pocket and said, “My doctor.” 

When the woman (Diane something) pulled up at the tack and feed shop John had been still in a way that meant he was terrified and furious. Sherlock only hoped that he wouldn't be the one who was yelled at. John had kindly thanked the woman and taken custody of Sherlock so they could retreat to their motel room, stopping only at a little corner store for the frozen peas and pain killers. John hadn't left Sherlock's side since. 

He didn't want to until they were safely back in London and he wouldn't have to worry that if he took his hands away from Sherlock he would put them on the nearest weapon so he could track down and kill every one of the men who had dared to lay a finger on his best friend. Who hadn't even seen a fraction of what he was capable of or who he was; senseless violence, pointless and as Sherlock would say, inelegant. Danger was a part of their work and their life- they invited it. But this- this was nothing like chasing a criminal down a dimly lit London street. This made John sick down to his toes, it made him want to find those juvenile fucks and make them hurt. It made him want to find everyone that had ever bullied and abused Sherlock and fight all those battles for him. 

But his friend didn't want to be alone so John wouldn't leave. Not that night. He carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair and listened to the low hum it produced. John closed his eyes. Everything would be okay. It had to be so he would make sure of it. 

In 45 minutes he would wake Sherlock again and when dawn came, and Sherlock was safe, and John had kept his unspoken promise and had time to cool down a bit, he would sneak out and track down five men because he simply couldn't stomach the injustice a minute longer. Hung over as they would be, and pissed off as John was, it wouldn't make for much of a fight. He would wring from them apologize that Sherlock would never hear, but could probably deduce anyway. He would come back with bruised knuckles and a lifted chin and Sherlock would grin a little but say nothing. 

And in 18 hours they would be on a plane to London and Sherlock would lay his aching head on John's shoulder, a calculated offering as well as an invitation for comfort, and John would run a fingertip over the butterfly bandage and make a mental note to check on the wound when he got home. Sherlock would let his eyes close- planes are incredibly dull- and let his mind drift, shifting thoughts as they came rather than pursuing any one of them in particular. He could relax. For now, John would take care of everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Cat Stevens song of the same name.


End file.
